


Like a Hurricane

by resurrectedhippo



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blindfolds, Bottom Tony Stark, Cunnilingus, Identity Porn, M/M, Pegging, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectedhippo/pseuds/resurrectedhippo
Summary: Hope burgeons in his breastbone, but it's short lived. There was once a time Steve told the world to stay loyal to the dream. Now, he knows that on the other side of that dream is disappointment. It’s true. Tony’s the best of them. The best at breaking Steve’s heart, too.I’d happily share him for the night, Captain! But just the night!
Relationships: Rumiko Fujikawa/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 74





	Like a Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treesramblings/pseuds/treesramblings) for the beta. <3 Title inspired by Tony describing Ru [like a hurricane.](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/756848161363853412/779084353929347112/RCO010.png)

The penthouse’s lights are dim. Steve slips in through the door and pads to the bedroom, reminding himself that he’s here for Tony. 

Rumiko had asked for his help in planning a surprise for Tony. Everything would be fine—after all, this is _Tony_ , and Steve trusts him with his life. 

Rumiko, though, is someone Steve’s still learning—learning to know, learning to like, learning to stop comparing himself to—because what does it matter now, anyway, how he compares to her? He’s seen the coverage in the papers.

Steve has heard the gossip and awe over the ring, the envy over what a handsome couple they make, the adoration of the heir and the heiress redefining Stark-Fujikawa as something beyond a mere business partnership. 

No. Steve’s already decided that he’s happy for Tony.

He is.

 _Really_ , he is.

Tony deserves something greater than life—something beyond anything that Steve or even Rumiko could possibly give him. 

Before Steve can talk himself out of it, he presses a hand against the ajar bedroom door, peaking in. The hinges are well-oiled. It doesn’t creak.

Rumiko’s hair is in two tight braids, bangs pushed to the side. She’s wearing a golden top that doesn’t cover much. The strap-on is thick and bright red, like Iron Man’s colors. 

Steve pauses, watching her. She’s a tiny thing compared to him, ramming her huge strap-on into Tony’s ass. Her manicured fingers are tight on Tony’s hips, thrusting in and out, in a slow, languid pace. Like they have all the time in the world. 

And, well, it’s true. They probably do.

Steve stays by the door, transfixed at the way Tony’s on his hands and knees, shifting back to meet Rumiko’s pace. He has his mouth open, moaning, delighted. 

He’s _happy_ —happy in a way that Steve wishes he could see for the rest of his life. It’s a dull ache deep inside him. He’s been content to watch from afar, but the invitation for more—to press his face to the glass and breathe the same air as this man—was too much of a good offer, of a dream come true, to pass. 

That’s Steve Rogers. He’s willing to take crumbs because he knows what it’s like to have nothing else. Only, now, it seems like taking scraps is a punishment all on its own. 

“Right there, _yes_ —faster, Ru, come on—faster, please, _please_.” Tony's head hangs inches from the pillows and he's groaning, hands gripping the sheets. His hair is slick with sweat. They must have been going at this for a while and Steve wonders if Tony fucked Rumiko first, if he fingered her open, if he sucked on her clit before she put on the harness. Tony reaches back with one hand, but it’s shoved away with a firm no.

“Please, Ru, I need more. More.” 

Rumiko plants a hand on Tony’s back, easing his face down to bed, and then she’s lifting his hips higher, picking up the pace. “Fine, honey. If that’s what you want… but remember you’re not allowed to come yet.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony gasps as he rocks forward, fucking his hard, leaking cock on the sheets. The blue cock ring makes the shape of his heavy balls more pronounced. “Ru, come on, please.”

“No, no, baby.” She chuckles, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around Tony’s torso. She plants kisses all over his back, then adjusts the blindfold on Tony’s face. “No, no, Tony. Remember, you and I don’t get to decide when you come tonight.”

They’re fucking, and it’s explicit and obscene, and Tony is making filthy sounds that go straight to Steve’s cock, but he can’t help the pang of envy that tugs at his chest when Tony turns his head to capture Rumiko’s lips, soft and sweet. 

Steve will never get to experience that.

He leans against the doorframe, still in the shadows of the hall, and palms his dick. He tries to control his breath, but they pay him no mind. He wishes that it was him instead—imagines himself in Rumiko’s position. Steve would fuck Tony the way he’s begging to be fucked. 

He should feel wrong. Guilty. There’s a lot of things that Steve should feel, but he can’t manage to summon any remorse for yearning to be inside Tony, to kiss his brows, to shower him with love. Protect him. Tell him that he’s good.

He’s close and watching them is its own form of penance. 

Steve watches Rumiko maneuver around, grabbing the bottle of lube and squeezing the bottom of the dildo as she pulls out. It makes a salacious sound. She croons—puts one hand on her cock, adjusts her stance—and then she’s mounting Tony, fucking him faster and faster until the only sound in the room is Tony’s moans, his breathy voice as he begs to come.

Steve swallows, stilling the hand on the front of his jeans, and forces himself to watch Tony’s blissed out face. The sound of his groans, the dirty things he begs for— _cock, your cock, fuck, I want your cock, Ru, fuck me harder, please_ —and Rumiko’s teasing voice responding— _you really like a big hard dick fucking you open like the cockslut you are, don’t you, baby?_ —will be forever seared into Steve’s head. 

Rumiko pulls out, the dildo bobbing on Tony’s right ass cheek. She turns and waves Steve over with a wicked grin.

She’s happy. She had promised that _Tony would love this, Steve, won’t you try to make this dream of his come true and give him some good fucking_?

Steve should have said no.

He could still leave.

He won’t. 

He’s wanted this for ages, an entire decade. There’s no doubt that Steve will want this for the rest of his life, too, but that’s all it will be: a craving forever unsatisfied. 

Rumiko puts her index finger to her lips, signaling for Steve to be quiet. “Baby, he’s here.”

“God—uh—fuck.” Tony twists, half his body turning to Rumiko. Steve’s never heard him like this before. He’s only ever imagined it in his weakest moments, when he lies in bed at night and jerks off to his fantasies of Tony.

Steve pads close at the sign of permission and sits on the foot of the bed. He’s rock hard. His pants are so tented that it should be uncomfortable, but he ignores it to look at Tony’s heavy balls, the shine of the ring attached to it. Steve wants to lick it back and forth, wants to twirl his tongue in circles and discover what feels good for Tony. 

“Strip,” Rumiko commands. 

Steve nods, standing to toe off his shoes. His jacket and shirt are next, fast and efficient, followed by his jeans and boxers, which he tears off in one quick movement. 

Rumiko catches his eyes for a moment and then glances at his dick with a smile that’s all teeth and gums. 

There was this one afternoon when Tony had come to the Mansion with a story of a woman he met. _Another one_ , Steve hadn’t said. Instead, he’d listened, cataloguing Tony’s eyes, soft and thrilled, to the wide smile on his face. Steve had known then that Tony had fallen in love again. 

They’d stood on the balcony overlooking the street walkers. All of New York, full of life—and then, there was Steve Rogers, Captain America, dying inside by the second as Tony had confessed, “She said she was hopelessly in love with me. I never knew it could be like this, Steve.”

“Like what?” Steve had asked.

“Like I could be… happy. That I don’t have to feel guilty for loving her back. I just _do_ , and that’s something true, tangible in this world full of the unknown.” 

“Tell me about her,” Steve had said, leaning against the banister so he didn’t have to see the way Tony’s eyes lit up even more. 

“She’s like a hurricane,” Tony had laughed, full and filled with joy, so much so that Steve couldn’t help the heaviness blooming in his sternum. “Blows me away, you know? Like that one Neil Young song. She’s… She’s something, Steve. You’d like her.”

The crux of it is that Steve _does_ like Rumiko—not just because she’s Tony’s partner, but because she’s her own woman, pragmatic and independent, but still filled with a shining hope that inspires Tony. For that alone, Steve’s grateful. Tony has someone to come home to, someone who’ll pester him into tending his wounds, holding him into the night, and, when the nightmares reach the surface, she’ll be there to make sure Tony doesn’t drown. 

Yeah. Tony will be alright. 

And Steve? He’ll be fine. He’ll adapt to it, school his expression to something that’s less revealing every time they enter the room together. There’ll still be afternoon bagels after debriefs and late evenings spent in the Mansion’s conference room strategizing. Tony’s not leaving Steve. He’s not. 

He folds the garments and sets them by the bedside table, next to another bottle of lube and handcuffs, where Tony’s Identicard is thrown casually—because of course Rumiko knows all of Tony, and he doesn't have to hide this.

Tony’s home, in a place where he’s comfortable. Steve's a guest, here just for the night. 

There’s a framed photo of them at some gala. Tony’s in a suit with Rumiko in his arms. 

Could Steve have this, too? He could. He should call Sharon tomorrow. 

No, yeah, _nice one_ , Steve, dragging Sharon back into his mess. Steve’s only wanted one thing since he’s woken up from the ice, and that’s to belong and have someone, honestly and wholeheartedly. No doubt, no remorse, no guilt. Something ordinary, and easy, where he doesn’t have to explain that he enjoys getting his face beaten in, that he feels alive in every fight. 

Steve just wants an unassuming love.

Sitting back on the bed, he examines Rumiko drawing almost-absent circles on Tony’s back. 

That’s what Steve wants. He’s not sure whether he’s jealous of her or not, but there’s an empty feeling in his chest, and he knows it's loneliness. It’s the fear of being forgotten and being left behind again. He’s nothing but an old relic in a new century. How is he supposed to inspire when there’s nothing but the hollow ghost of yesterday following him late into the night? 

“Relax,” Rumiko whispers, squeezing his bicep with a nod at his flagging erection. 

Right. This is about sex. Just sex. 

He shouldn’t be so maudlin. Better to save these thoughts for after—when he’s eventually crawled home, pulled off the scratchy sheets from his bed, and forced himself to sleep. 

Steve fists his dick, jacks it off a couple of times. He takes a deep breath, then moves to the center of the bed. Tony’s been patient, panting and making low, pleased sounds, anticipating what Rumiko has planned. 

“Go on, give him a lick.” She scoots forward, squeezing one of Tony’s cheeks, and pulls it to the side. She tips her three fingers in, humming as Tony’s glistening hole flutters. Rumiko fucks her fingers in, twisting and turning with expert movement. Belatedly, Steve realizes she knows Tony’s body in a way Steve has only ever hoped to understand. She adds a fourth finger, hushing Tony. Her hands are smaller compared to Steve, but Tony takes it with a sense of familiarity, hole expanding against her knuckles. “You like that, baby? Feels good? I’m making you feel good?” She turns to Steve, pulling her fingers out and licking them clean. “You should have a taste. Go on, you’ll love it.” 

Steve stares, unsure how to proceed, because this is Tony’s lover giving him permission to have Tony’s ass. But he understands the unnamed stipulation: it’s just once.

Just once, Rumiko had told him, so he might as well be greedy if the only repercussion is Steve’s heart breaking once he walks out the penthouse.

Rumiko shifts to her haunches, takes Steve’s hand, and sets it to Tony’s lower back. “Do I have to do everything?” she laughs, light and airy, and it’s a surreal moment when her strap-on bounces on Steve’s thigh. 

She guides his hand down Tony’s ass and thighs, both of them feeling Tony’s warm skin. Goosebumps erupt, and of _course_ Tony would be responsive. He’s always been reactionary, yes—a planner, a futurist, seeing what the rest of them can’t predict. Steve wonders if Tony ever saw this happening—ever saw Steve, in his depraved want, abiding to these conditions because the yearning consumes him until this is all that’s left. A choice. A decision. Almost a betrayal. To himself? To Tony? Steve doesn’t know.

“Here, like this.” She folds his thumb and two of his fingers back, then presses the index and middle against Tony’s rim. “Tease him a little bit. He likes that.” And together, they rub circles, clockwise, until Steve finally dips in and feels the heat of Tony, stretching open against Steve. _For_ Steve. 

A sigh escapes Tony, and Steve bites his lip when Tony starts rocking against him, arching his back, demanding more. 

“That’s good, that’s very good, yes, _yes_ ,” Tony praises, fucking himself on Steve’s fingers.

“Hush, baby. Just relax. We’ll take care of you. We’ll take care of everything.” Rumiko dips down, kissing the mole in the middle of Tony’s back. 

How many times has Steve seen that mole in the showers, in the Mansion, between missions, when Tony’s stripped off his shirt, walking to Steve shirtless? Walking away from him? Walking to someone else?

It’s alright. Steve tells himself to get a fucking grip and do some actual fucking. He came here for a goddamn reason and he’s not leaving until he gets it done.

He stares at Tony’s hole, adding a third finger, and suppresses a moan when Tony starts rocking back. How is Steve supposed to go on pretending this never happened, that he doesn’t know the sounds Tony makes when he’s begging for cock?

“I’m ready, please, please.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, doesn’t say _hold on, just a little bit more, let me have this for a little while, let me see you like this a little longer_. He bites his lips and focuses his efforts on scissoring Tony open, prodding and poking until he finds that sweet spot. Steve rubs it over and over just for the joy of hearing Tony’s response. He’s pleading now, saying he wants to come, promising he’ll be good, and Steve imagines that Tony knows it’s him doing this—knows it’s _Steve_ working his body, Steve learning what degree his back arches, Steve learning at what pressure he starts to curl his toes. 

He can pretend, can lie to himself, like he’s been lying his whole life. Steve’s gotten good at denial. 

“No, no, no, he’s still working,” Rumiko says, unbuckling her harness. “Let me give you something to do in the meantime.” She sets the strap-on by the edge of the side table, then crawls over to the head of the bed frame, rearranges some pillows, and opens her legs for Tony’s face. She pulls Tony by the hair, dragging him to her cunt.

Steve’s jaw works and he forces himself to center his attention on Tony instead of listening to her purr, telling Tony that _it’s so good, he’s being so good, it feels so good_. Steve wants to be able to do that, wants to verbally communicate how pleased he is with Tony's body taking him so well, wants to declare that he's so happy to be in this moment. 

Except, well, maybe that might not be true. The happiness comes in waves, and now, as he looks over to see Rumiko's scrunched up face on the verge of coming, it registers that Tony and Rumiko will have this for the rest of their lives. Steve is just here for a moment. He’s a wild animal passing in the juncture of an intersection. He'll cross the road and go on his way after this. It's just for tonight. 

Rumiko pets Tony’s hair. Steve can’t watch. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be in her position. Wants to be the one kissing Tony at the end of every night. Wants to be the first thing that Tony sees in the morning.

Steve doesn’t hate her. He _doesn’t_.

He grabs more lube, smearing it over Tony’s crack, and adds another finger. 

Four fingers.

Steve’s hands are much larger than Rumiko’s—and yet, here Tony is, taking more, more, and more. 

He tunes out the sounds of Tony's slurping and groaning as he eats out Rumiko’s cunt. Steve focuses on the swell of Tony's ass, stroking the back of his thighs, running his free hand up to Tony's shoulder blades. When Steve gets to Tony's nape, he scratches at the place behind his ear and tells himself that the responsive moan is for him. Steve twists the hand fucking Tony, thrusting in deeper. He loses himself in the sensation, dipping down to lick at Tony’s crack. He bites the inside of his mouth, holding back a groan. Steve wishes he could be loud, say all the things that Rumiko is telling Tony. But he can’t. He can’t. 

“Oh, that’s good, isn’t it?” Rumiko asks, breathless.

Tony hums, rising up on one arm to finger her. Steve shouldn’t look. He shouldn’t. But what if that were him instead? Tony eating his ass, fingering him open, telling Steve that he’s lovely and how he’s always wanted Steve like this, flushed and panting, just for Tony. 

Tony shudders when Steve removes his fingers. Steve pleads with himself to put an end to this. He should walk away, put his clothes back on, and leave them be. 

He remembers the time when he woke up from ice and Iron Man—Tony—had been the first face he’d seen. It must have meant something, right? A decade and some change together—they've had other loves, seen each other's pitfalls, and still he's here in this moment, feeling like he's being cut open. 

Steve removes his hands, grabbing both of Tony's cheeks just to see his open hole. He gives it two quick licks. Tony’s exposed for him. Tony is his—for now, just for now—but it’s alright, it’s ok. Steve is a soldier. He’ll be fine. 

But Steve wants nothing more than to fucking _speak_ , wants to praise Tony, want to tell him how beautiful he is and how Steve's always wanted this. But Tony will hear his voice, and that can't be, because it's against the rules. Rumiko might as well have taken a knife and removed his vocal chords. 

Here, he's nothing but a body providing Tony pleasure. That's it. Nothing more. Steve's just a fucktoy, invited to a couple's bed for the night. 

He slicks himself up with the lube Rumiko gave him and lines up his cock. Rumiko told him in advance that he doesn’t need the rubber. Tony and Rumiko are both clean, and as long as Captain America’s comfortable with that, there’s no issue. 

Steve is all about making bad decisions lately. 

Everyday, Steve wakes up with the chance of dying. But this is what it must be like to kill yourself little by little. Inch by bloody inch. It’s like standing on a cliff, knowing you’ll jump because at the bottom of the precipice might be some form of peace. _L'appel du vide_.

He grabs Tony’s hips, bracing himself—and then he watches his cock slide in, right to the hilt. He’s home. 

Except this _can’t_ be home, because this is temporary. A wish fulfilled in an inverted way. Nothing can take root here because it isn’t permanent and Steve would be stupid to think otherwise. 

He doesn’t move, trying instead to catalogue Tony’s response: the rise and fall of his chest, the sweat on the valley of his back, the way he makes a soft noise when Steve squeezes his hips—

Steve pushes forward, learning over to trap Tony with his body. He still can't see Tony's face.

Steve is on the verge of crying. He's a fucking mess.

Rumiko is groaning and there's the sound of him fucking Tony open. It's too much. Steve wraps an arm around Tony, a mimicry of what Rumiko did earlier. He wants to rewrite the whole night. Lie to himself, ignore the voice in his head telling him that he's only here because she requested it. Allowed it. 

Pretend that it’s just him and Tony in the penthouse, spending a night in after finishing two boxes of pizza. No Avengers business or an intergalactic crisis, just the two of them, happy. He plants his front, feeling the warmth of Tony’s back on his chest, the beat of his pulse, and with his other hand, he caresses Tony’s pecs, the way someone might do when they’re saying goodbye to a grave. 

This is it. There’s no returning from here. Steve’s going to give all he can and he’ll walk out of the Tower unable to feel guilt or regret.

Steve closes his eyes, dropping his head to Tony’s neck—smelling him, holding him tight, wishing for a different scenario. Maybe they could both pretend that it’s just sweat dripping from Steve’s face. 

Steve snaps his hips faster, not concerned about finesse or being a good lay. What the fuck does it matter? Tony won't know it's him. He's panting, whether because he's angry at himself, this situation, or Tony, Steve doesn't know. He narrows his universe to just this moment, a bunch of nerve endings registering pleasure, cancelling the heaviness between his ribs. He wraps his other arm around Tony, putting all his weight on the arches of his feet. Hugs him. Imagine that this is intimate and anything but a game. 

Tony’s no longer eating Rumiko out, but she’s got her fingers on her clit and she’s pushing Tony back to Steve. Permission granted. It makes him feel sick that she’s letting this happen, and he’s a goddamn dog, taking the proffered scraps. 

Steve holds Tony up, pulling him to his chest. He holds Tony tight, kissing his shoulders, his neck. Steve wants to bite and mark Tony’s body—wants evidence that Steve is here. Maybe tomorrow, Tony’ll look in the mirror and wonder who sucked the red bruise. Maybe Tony will go to the Mansion wearing a loose shirt that exposes the column of his throat and will point it out. Maybe Tony will blush and wink at him, and Steve will know it was him that kissed it there. 

Instead, Steve tries to satisfy himself with short licks, memorizing Tony’s scent like this, with Steve’s cock pistoning inside him.

“Fucking hell, you’re so good at that—you’re so hot, that feels amazing.” Tony turns to him, mouthing at his jaw. Tony’s peppering soft kisses, nipping at Steve’s throat. “Kiss me, please. I want to taste you. Kiss me? Kiss me.”

Tony thinks he’s good, thinks _Steve_ is good.

God, he can’t do this.

Steve hides his face in Tony’s shoulder, breathing him in and gripping him hard. Steve’s fingers shake. He fucks Tony deeper, harder. He wants to hurt Tony, bruise him, slap him around. Steve is sick of controlling his strength. He wants to hurt himself. 

Steve spares a glance at Rumiko. A question.

She nods, content watching them. Rumiko is no longer fingering herself. She sits cross-legged and observes Steve with some form of detachment and curiosity. She doesn’t say anything else, and Steve wonders again whether this entire night is for Tony’s or Steve’s sake. 

Steve slows his thrusts, snaking a hand to grip Tony’s face, kissing him on the mouth. Tony opens up like the way he opened the Mansion to the Avengers, opened his life to Steve, opened his heart to the world. Tony kisses with generosity, tongue turning and prodding at Steve’s own. Tony kisses like it’s the end of the world. Slow, consuming, Steve lets the end ruin him.

Steve opens his eyes, catching sight of the stupid blindfold. He can’t see Tony’s eyes. But he imagines them wide, surprised and elated, like he’s always wanted Steve to kiss him. 

He wants to talk. He wants to say so much. But there are rules in place, and he’s trapped in limbo, at once having what he’s always wanted, but not in the circumstances he’s wished for. Steve imagined evenings in the Mansion, together in the workshop, walking around the city, crawling across the town and its people like they’re just two ordinary citizens. Breakfast served and eaten together, late evenings that end in soft kisses and the promise of more. More. More. More. That’s the thing with Steve, isn’t it? He’s always wanted more. 

Steve bites back the words, resisting the temptation to pretend that he doesn’t have to walk away after coming, doesn’t have to return to an empty bed, alone with the smell of Tony, the taste of Tony on his lips. 

Tony nips Steve’s lower lip, hard enough to break skin, and then he’s interspersing the sting with small licks and drawn out hums. The scratch of the silk blindfold is irritating on Steve’s skin. He itches to pull it off and let Tony see that this is _him_ , is _Steve_. But instead, he breaks the kiss. 

“No, no, come back,” Tony begs, and Steve’s never known him to be this needy before. 

Tony has always been independent, tending to his wounds alone. But here he is, asking Steve to give him more. Hope burgeons in his breastbone, but it's short lived. There was once a time Steve told the world to stay loyal to the dream. Now, he knows that on the other side of that dream is disappointment. 

_I’m here_ , Steve doesn’t say. He kisses Tony’s cheek, memorizing the rasp of his beard.

With a long breath, Steve pulls out of Tony and flips him onto his back. 

_I want to see your face when you come_ , Steve doesn’t say. 

He can’t say it.

Instead, he ignores Rumiko’s watchful eye and pretends it's just the two of them. Steve settles between Tony’s legs, caressing his sides, counting his ribs, one, two, three… Tony’s broken them so many times in battle—with the Mandarin, with Doom, with whatever crisis came up, it’s rare for Iron Man to come out unscathed. And yet, Tony’s always persevered, and came out on top, better than before. 

It’s true. Tony’s the best of them. The best at breaking Steve’s heart, too.

Steve shifts up, licking Tony’s mouth open, kissing with a fierceness he doesn’t possess. He musters courage, kisses the corner of Tony’s mouth. There’s a pleased smile there. Steve knows just by the feel—he’s seen it on Tony many times before. This is for him. This smile belongs to him, even if it’s fleeting. 

He swallows, wiping at his eyes. It’s just sweat. He’s overwhelmed; it’s a natural reaction. Eyes closed, Steve trails a kiss from Tony’s mouth to his sternum, licking where the RT used to be. 

Steve pulls back just enough to take in Tony, spread out and eager underneath him, and the truth of his feelings, feelings Steve has tried to hide and ignore and belay, hits Steve in the gut. 

Tony is handsome. Steve’s known this for ages. Even when he didn’t know Tony Stark and Iron Man were the same man, he’s always been fond of Mr. Stark, the Avengers benefactor. Seeing him here, naked and wanton, a layer of sweat defining his pecs, his arms, those broad, muscular shoulders…

Steve chokes down a sob. A plea. He doesn't know. He longs for a different time. Maybe if he had had more courage, he might have said something to Tony years ago, rather than forcing himself to be satisfied with specks and remnants of what could have been.

Steve works Tony’s nipples between his teeth, licking and biting until they’re hard and swollen. He files away every moan, the way Tony arches his chest, silently asking for more. He'll turn this over later, pull it out of a metaphorical folder, flip through the pages, analyzing each inhale, every kiss, every whimper. 

He cradles Tony’s face, willing the veil away so he can see those eyes. Blue, steady with resolve. It's always been that shade of blue, a seafoam he'd seen on the edges of a beach in France. But the center of his eyes are sharp, like the blue of a bluebird chattering away in the morning.

Steve shifts up, spreading Tony’s legs wide, opening him up in a way he can never have again. 

It’s just this once. 

He wants to see Tony’s face, nevermind that his eyes are obstructed. Nevermind that his eyes are the first that Steve seeks out after a battle. Nevermind it all. 

He fists his dick and presses in.

“Fucking— _fuck_ , you’re huge. Fuck—fuck—” Tony’s hands reach for him. Steve doesn’t know what he wants and he can’t ask, so Steve lies to himself, tells himself that Tony wants to feel his face, wants to crash their mouths together.

He bottoms out, circling his hips as he looks for Tony’s sweet spot. At least he’ll make Tony feel good.

“Yes, yes, there—keep going, you can go harder, please—” Tony bites his lips, and Steve’s lost on him, reduced to following directions.

He fucks hard and deep, this new determination shocking him. He'll have it just this once, and it's alright. He covers Tony's hand, and Tony intertwines them, bringing them to his lips. It's a sweet gesture, practically absurd given the circumstances, but Steve stopped caring long ago. With his other hand, he brings Tony's right leg up, thrusting in faster, gasping at the sound of their skin slapping against each other. His balls are heavy and his arms are growing tired, but he's resolute. Steve wraps Tony's leg by his waist and leans forward, aligning their torsos so they’re chest to chest. 

“Oh, oh, yes, god, yes. Please, harder, harder,” Tony cries between every other thrust, panting and twisting his body, meeting Steve’s pace, and a growl—a sound he’s never heard outside of battle—comes out of him. With his free hand, Steve lifts Tony’s waist, plunging deeper. “God—fuck— _yes_.” 

Tony presses their intertwined fingers to his mouth and bites. Steve imagines that the reason Tony is biting down on his knuckles so hard is because he’s trying not to scream Steve’s name because Steve is fucking him so good. Steve just wants to hear it. Tony would call him _Cap_ , and would beg for _more, Cap, more_ , then he’ll bend over to just whisper Steve’s name again and again until that’s the only thing he knows. He wants to hold Tony down, pin his wrists above his head, tear off that stupid blindfold that looks like an accusation and throw it under the bed. 

He’ll ask Tony to open his goddamn eyes so he knows it’s Steve. It’s Steve, and it always has been, since the beginning, who loves him, who’ll please him, who’ll fuck him good and cook him eggs in the morning. Because Steve’s willing to stay until the morning, kiss Tony’s eyes open. He wants to see those blue eyes. He’s always been fond of them, tracking them behind the faceplate whenever he’d wondered who was behind the armor. 

Steve knows that shade of blue, the way he knows that there's a latch on the back of the faceplate, the way he knows that Tony programmed override protocols with Steve’s special access code. He wants to pull Tony up and close until they’re breathing each other’s exhales, want to arrange Tony on his lap and have him sit on his cock and stay there, let Steve do all the work because Steve would take care of him, anticipate every hitch, every groan, would please him and fuck him until Tony knows it’s only Steve who can ever have him like this. 

Steve bites his lips, drawing blood, burying all the words he’s never allowed himself to utter. He doesn’t dare groan or moan in case Tony recognizes the sound as if they were in battle. There's just the sound of sex surrounding them—he can't think of it as love-making because this isn't about love. Not for Tony. Not for Rumiko. This is Steve's chosen demise. 

Tony arches and their chests rub, and then he's wrapping his free hand around Steve, and Steve can imagine this going a million ways. He can remove the blindfold, reveal himself, peer into those eyes. Trouble, that's all that would be. But Steve's always running headfirst into danger. He won't survive this, he knows. He kisses Tony, putting everything he has into thrusting in and out. 

The bed rocks forward and back with the force of their bodies. Tony's pulling him close, and Steve's grinding his teeth so a sob doesn't escape.

Steve could have this, could have Tony. He could. Almost.

The moment vanishes.

He fails and groans, the sound coming deep from within his body, and he's kissing Tony's neck, rubbing his entire body, wishing Tony won’t shower after this, that he'll smell like Steve until the morning. 

Tony's hand scratched at his back, hard and insistent. Almost pounding. There’s a beat that stretches, on and on, and Tony gasps, scratching at Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve moves faster, hitting Tony’s prostate, hoping that the marks will stay until he gets home and can trace the lines. 

“Come for me—let me feel you make me wet. Come inside me,” Tony gasps out, his hand going to the nape of Steve’s neck, playing with the soft hairs there. “Please, I want to feel you—please—please… Harder, keep going. I want to _feel_ you.”

Steve pulses, coming hard at the sound of Tony’s breathy voice. He lets himself ride the wave. Gravity pulls him down. He kisses the side of Tony’s face, his jaw, his temple, his eyelids. Tony soothes his back, rubbing circles from his traps to his delts. He’s humming, purring even, telling Steve that he’s all filled and it feels so good to have come inside him. 

Steve isn’t going to cry. He isn’t. 

The high immediately dissipates, fading into something hollow, like he’s cracked his ribs, removed his lungs, and there’s nothing left but an empty cavity with his still beating heart. It fucking _hurts_. 

He shakes himself and works on the task of making Tony come. Steve shifts down, removing the cock ring—gentle and slow—watching the swell and bob of his cock, rock hard. For him. For _Steve_.

He can’t decide if he wants Tony to come on his face or his mouth, but he wants Tony to see the evidence of his spunk dripping down Steve’s cheeks and jaw. It’s not possible—it can’t be—and so Steve just sucks Tony off. He flicks his tongue on Tony’s slit, then mouths at the head of his cock. Steve’s not above pretending that Tony’s moaning his name. 

A hand drops to his head, petting and pushing Steve’s hair back. God, can’t Tony know? Can’t he tell that this is Steve just from the lines of his body, the feel of his hair? No, no, probably not, because there’s never been a moment outside of Steve’s fantasies where Tony has ever pushed his hair back.

He swallows Tony down, movements unhurried, dragging the time out so he doesn't have to leave so soon. He reaches down, pressing two fingers back into Tony, fucking his come back inside. 

“Fuck, fuck, I’ll come, you’ll make me come—” Tony tightens his hold on Steve’s hair. “Oh, fuck, fuck, yeah, yeah. Yes, there, please, please.”

Steve bobs down, flattening his tongue, pulling out to lick at Tony’s balls before sucking him down again. He fucks his fingers deeper, thrusting harder, rubbing at Tony’s prostate.

“Oh, _fuck_ —I’m coming, yes—I’m coming.” Tony pulls hard, like they’re in battle and he wants to throw Steve across the room. His cock twitches and he’s hard again, and he wants to fuck Tony again and again, fill him up with his come, but there’s Rumiko’s voice echoing in his head: _just this once_. 

Steve has spit dripping down his jaw, but he doesn’t care. He relaxes his throat, taking Tony in, letting Tony fuck his face. Use him like he deserves. If Steve can’t be anything else other than a cock to fill Tony or a warm hole for his cock, a faceless stranger to fuck, then that’s fine. It’s alright, he repeats, ignoring the sting in his eyes. It’s just because Tony’s pulling his hair and he can feel Tony take root inside him, growing, festering, blooming, until there’s nothing left but Tony.

But that’s always been the case.

Tony comes deep down Steve’s throat. 

He swallows like a starved man. At least he’ll know what Tony’s come tastes like. There's a greedy part of him that says _mine, mine, mine_. Claiming that orgasm as his and his alone. Not Rumiko’s, not even Tony’s. It’s just for Steve. He keeps twisting his fingers, thrusting in and out, until Tony falls back on the mattress with a satisfied laugh. 

“Thank you. That was… You’re perfect.” Tony’s smiling, fucked out. Then, softly, he adds, “You really are. Truly.”

Steve stares at Tony’s flushed cheeks, the dried spit on his beard. Steve wishes he could see the long lashes framing Tony’s eyes. He pulls his fingers from Tony’s hole and presses them to Tony’s mouth. 

Tony opens, licking Steve’s digits clean. 

Steve pulls his fingers back, stroking Tony’s lower lip, his goatee. He rubs the bridge of Tony’s nose with his index finger, tracing a straight line from the space between his eyebrows to his cupid bows. Steve bends, offering another kiss that feels too much like a farewell.

He really should stop lying to himself. Everything’s changed now. 

Tony holds Steve’s face with both palms, outlining the shape of his cheekbones. His movements pause for a moment, too short to really notice. There’s a question there, but Steve kisses him quiet. 

Too soon, he moves away. The come on his dick is dry now. 

Steve pushes Tony’s sweat-soaked hair back and kisses his temple. He’d rather suffer a cruel death than leave. 

He untangles himself from Tony’s arms, sits up, and observes the blush down Tony’s torso, his softening cock. His hole leaks with Steve’s come. 

Steve kisses his belly button and gets off the bed. He grabs his clothes from the nightstand and dresses without a word.

He looks at Rumiko, smug, and wonders whether she’s vindictive enough to hurt him this way, put Steve in his place, and realizes—no, she isn’t cruel. This was supposed to be fun. _I’d happily share him for the night, Captain! But just the night!_

Rumiko cuddles Tony, rubbing his shoulders and kissing him. Kisses him where Steve’s mouth was. She mouths at his collarbone, flicking at Tony’s nipples with a laugh. 

“Did you like that, Tony? Wish fulfilled?”

“Yes. Thank you, Ru.” Tony smiles, voice in awe, like he’s been given a gift he could never have asked for. “Thank you. For giving me this.”

“Just this once.”

Tony turns his chin up, aiming for a kiss. Rumiko delivers. 

“I know, baby.” 

She’s there. She’s staying. 

Steve is leaving. 

He laces his boots and stands up, knowing that his cock tastes like Tony. He puts his jacket on, knowing the way Tony kisses his lovers. There’s nothing left. No more clothes to put on. No more stalling. 

Steve stands at the cliff. Rumiko glances at him. She nods. 

She pushes him over.

He falls, dropping quietly. Resigned. 

Steve came, and he’s still goddamn lonely and desperate with wanting, and seeing her kiss Tony reminds him that this isn’t his and he should never pretend.

He walks out. It’s a full moon, wide and accusatory, too revealing for such an awful night. Steve avoids a few pedestrians and ducks down to the nearest subway station. He waits on the platform, gets into the arriving car, and rides it throughout the night. He doesn’t know which direction it’s going, but the hum of the subway washes over him and he avoids thinking about the taste of Tony’s mouth. 

Tomorrow he’ll wake up, go for a run, and then maybe Tony will pass by the Mansion and they’ll have a cup of coffee. Maybe Steve might suggest sparring, just for fun, for old times’ sake, because it’s always a good idea to practice, and Steve will pretend he doesn’t know what Tony’s sweat tastes like, or the way his rim twitches as Steve slides out. Steve will pretend to not know how his hole flutters when come drips out, and he’ll pretend that being close to Tony doesn’t affect him. 

Because nothing happened. Tony will never know and Steve won’t tell him. 

It was just for the night. Steve should really learn to stop asking for so much. Just for the night, he repeats to himself, again and again until he can’t hear the subway announcing the next stop. 

When the car is finally empty and running the track back to Midtown, Steve begins to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are like a big hug. <3


End file.
